Sara Teasdale

Nahant

  Bowed as an elm under the weight of its beauty,
  So earth is bowed, under her weight of splendor,
  Molten sea, richness of leaves and the burnished
   Bronze of sea-grasses.

  Clefts in the cliff shelter the purple sand-peas
  And chicory flowers bluer than the ocean
  Flinging its foam high, white fire in sunshine,
   Jewels of water.

  Joyous thunder of blown waves on the ledges,
  Make me forget war and the dark war-sorrow—
  Against the sky a sentry paces the sea-cliff
   Slim in his khaki.